


when the earth collides

by mishcollin



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean still has nightmares about Stull. (This is a Pacific Rim AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay exposition for people who haven't seen the movie and still want to know what's going on in this fic: Kaiju are these huge monstrous creatures that come through a portal in the volcanic cracks at the bottom of the ocean, starting in 2013. To combat them humans built these gigantic, manually-operated robots called Jaegers. One person directing the Jaeger is too much for the human brain to handle, so two people share the load and are “drifted" together and are basically psychically connected, their memories and emotions and thoughts etc, and they operate the Jaeger together to fight the Kaiju.

_"Dean!"_

The cry rips through him like a gunshot, twists it and cuts upward like a knife in his gut; through the furious flares of lightning, he can see the bright glint of terror in Sam’s eyes, his bloody fingertips outstretched for him, muted words perched on his lips—Dean can  _feel_ the sharp spasms of pain, terror, desperation as if they’re his own, but it’s a hundred, a thousand times worse, because they’re  _Sam’s._

"Dean," Sam cries, “I need to tell you—" and then he’s yanked away in a crunch of reptilian skin and teeth and thunder, lost into the spluttering maelstrom of the rain.

Dean screams but no sound is torn from him; he can feel the cold, the empty, the  _dead sea_ where Sam was, where he always had been, an aching and crippling space, like someone ripped out one of his lungs, or his limbs, the left ventricle of his heart. The absence is agony, is fierce and arctic  _nothing—_

"Sam!" Dean’s screaming over and over again, and the rain’s running red now, dark as blood—

Dean jolts up in bed with a wild gasp to the sound of his alarm clock going nuts, a sheath of cold sweat pasting his shirt to his skin.

He stumbles to the bathroom, wiping the salt of sweat and tears out of his eyes, and punches the dial on the shower to cold, his heart still jackhammering in his ears. After peeling his damp clothes from his body, he clambers into the shower and stands with his hands clutching his elbows, tremors racking his frame.

It’s amazing how after five years of dull work and repressing and drinking and hook-ups, Dean still remembers Stull in vivid clarity, down to the last gritty detail. The emptiness where Sam once was still buzzes like static, crackling like an electric socket left open and unattended to. Like a void waiting to be  _filled._

But it won’t be filled, not again. Dean has to live with that emptiness because of his own dumb fucking mistakes, has to endure the agony of the consequences.

Dean braces his forearms on the cold tile wall and places his forehead on the platform of his arms, gasping as the cold water swishes and gurgles down the drain.

He’d lost Sam after a double-Kaiju attack at Stull Port, right off the coast of northern Alaska. They’d been put under orders to leave a boat to capsize in order to focus on the main threat, but of course, when had he and Sam ever let innocent lives go to waste? They’d been hunters all their lives; saving people wasn’t even a matter of choice. 

Dean had made the call. The call had gotten Sam killed. Dean, after the attack, had ended up still stuck in a Jaeger on a barren coast in Canada after miles and miles of half-conscious wandering through the ocean. The entire time, he’d been lost in a sea of static, of ghost impressions of Sam, and was too disoriented, too fucked up to even contemplate killing himself. That’s what he should’ve done; gone out in a blaze of glory with his brother, jumped into the literal jaws of death. Surely death would be more kind than whatever hell he’s living now.

 _Angels are watching over you_ , his mother had once told him,  _they’re watching out for you and your brother_. Dean feels his mouth curl into a twisted, acerbic sneer. The angels had left years ago, once the Kaiju started attacking; bailed earth like it was a bad party and headed back upstairs. From what Dean’s understanding is, the Kaiju, being interdimensional creatures of doom, could inflict severe damage on angels due to said interdimensionality. So the angels, being Earth’s benevolent guardians as they were, ditched town.

There’d been no guardian angel watching over Sam.

Dean punches off the shower and steps out, still shivering, and tries to redirect his mind away from Sam, away from douchebag winged monkeys and Kaiju. It’s still somewhat amazing to him; their whole lives, Dean and his brother had lived in what felt like a private universe of monsters, separated from the rest of human existence, until 2013. Now, in 2025, the whole world is a supernatural nightmare. It would almost be funny if it weren’t so fucked up.

There aren’t any secrets anymore, Dean thinks as he towels off his hair. Monsters, angels, demons, humans, they’re all mixed and churned up and spat out into the same damn horror story.

"Apocalypse is nigh," Dean mutters to himself, and stoops to brush his teeth.

—-

Dean hates construction work, but he’s good at it and it keeps him busy. He idly watches the communal TV screen out of his peripheral vision as he hammers and screws and lifts through the long hours. He’s currently working with a couple thousand other workers on some wall project the government had set up to replace the Jaeger system; it seems stupid to Dean, but he gets paid so he keeps his mouth shut and his head down.

Every once in a while, people will shoot looks his way; curious, hostile, reverent on occasion. Everyone knows he’s Dean Winchester, ex-Jaeger pilot who’d lost his brother in the Stull Port fight. He’s practically a celebrity, with none of the perks or pay.

Around two o’clock, other workers begin shouting down the way that there’s been a Kaiju attack in Sydney, and quick, it’s on TV. Dean—thankfully on the ground today, given he fucking hates heights—follows after his coworkers without a word, eyes trained on the familiar and ghastly shape on screen rising from the sea like something out of  _Star Trek_. It’s as massive as they all are, with indestructible dark blue scales, two bulbous eyes and a snout ten times the length of Dean’s body. Its tail alone could decimate a small town.

There are loud groans of horror as well as complaints when the Kaiju smashes through Sydney’s meticulously crafted wall as easy as anything. There goes that plan, Dean thinks with a resigned smirk, and watches with reluctant engrossment as planes deposit a familiar-looking Jaeger into the sea, where it takes the Kaiju from behind and succeeds in decimating the rest of the Sydney Opera House. Dean can’t help but think that he and Sam would operate the Jaeger differently,  _better;_  faster and tighter and more coordinated.

There’s a sharp tap on his shoulder, and Dean turns to see a familiar but slightly aged Victor Henriksen, his dark eyes trained forebodingly on the screen, his mouth set in a flat line of stress and disapproval.

"Henriksen," Dean says in surprise. “What are you doing here?"

"I’m here with a proposition," Henriksen says; his lips quirk as the crowd breaks out into raucous cheers and whoops. Dean turns in time to see the Jaeger on-screen deliver an electric-charged punch into the opposing Kaiju’s maw, driving its fist deep into its throat. The Kaiju roars and chokes before stiffening and crashing downward, sending white-tipped waves fanning out around it and pushing the remains of the Opera House bobbing to shore.

"Looks like a success," Dean says, turning warily to face Henriksen again. “Why the hell are you here?"

"Like I said," Henriksen says, his eyes dark and unreadable, “I have a bit of a proposal for you."

"I think I know what it is," Dean says, moving away from the throngs of sweaty, excited construction workers. “And my answer is no."

"C’mon, Dean," Henriksen says with a short, unamused smile. “I haven’t even delivered my pitch yet."

"No, Henriksen," Dean says flatly. “I’m not getting back into a Jaeger, alright? My answer hasn’t changed from five years ago and it’s not gonna."

"Dean," Henriksen says quietly, sternly as people swivel to look their way at catching some of the words. “Here, come away for a second."

Henriksen lays a cold hand on Dean’s elbow and maneuvers him away from the crowd; Dean lets himself be guided, feeling a tight ball of anger and panic building like bile in his chest.

"We’re running out of options," Henriksen tells him when they’re out of earshot from the other workers. “You are, well and truly, my last hope."

"Well, you can count me out," Dean says, and hates himself for letting his voice waver. “You can’t ask me to do this, Victor. Not this, anything but this."

"Dean," Henriksen says in a deep, calming voice. “I wouldn’t be asking you if I had another option."

"You know I was still connected to Sammy when the Kaiju got him?" Dean feels his hands shaking so he balls them into tight fists, so tight that he can feel the sharp cut of his nails in his palms. “I can still remember… _everything._ If you suit me up and throw me back into the fray, I don’t have any guarantee…if I’ll even, what I’ll—" Dean lowers his eyes, suddenly unable to meet Henriksen’s appraisal. “I’m unstable."

"You think I don’t know that?" Henriksen says impatiently, then softens his voice and lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder that he assumes is supposed to act as a consolation. “Dean. I can never express how truly sorry I am for what happened to Sam. But Jaeger pilots are dropping faster than flies, faster than we can even  _begin_ to train more. We’re down to our last  _ten._ See them?" Henriksen nods toward the screen; Dean catches sight of a very attractive, almost cat-like woman with wavy blond hair and a stern-looking African-American man with a slightly feral look in his eyes. The woman is beaming, almost smugly as reporters swarm her with questions; the man maintains a stony, almost haunted silence, dark eyes surveying the interviewers. “You know them?"

“‘Course," Dean says. Everyone knows all the Jaeger pilots. They’re practically heroes. “Bela Talbot and Gordon Walker."

"They’re our only solid team left," Henriksen says. “Remember the Harvelles?"

Dean nods; he and Jo had been good friends in their run in the Jaeger program a few years back.

"Kaiju got them in a mission outside Los Angeles."

Dean swallows and bows his head, feeling both stricken and unsurprised by the loss.

"Now, you and Sam were some of our best pilots. Almost like you were  _born_ for the job. Now what are you doing with your life? Hacking down vamps, guttin’ a few hell-bitches here and there, and watching  _Days of Our Lives_ reruns when you get home?"

Dean keeps his eyes lowered; he can’t stand to see Henriksen’s surprise or judgment firsthand.

"Dean," Henriksen says in surprise, “really? Not even hunting?"

"I’ve been trying to take it easy," Dean says quietly, “you gotta understand, Vic—"

"Dean," Henriksen interrupts, waving him off, “I don’t need your sob-story for the last half a decade. I am asking you,  _begging_ you, to get back in the saddle here. As a favor to an old friend, as an entreaty on behalf of human existence, or something. The most important thing you can think of; I’m asking on its behalf here."

Dean jams his hands in his pockets and tries to stomach the thought of climbing into a Jaeger and drifting with someone who isn’t Sam. “I can’t do this, Henriksen. I’m sorry."

"Winchester," Henriksen says so sharply that Dean stands at attention. “You think this is the fate that  _God_ has laid out for you?"

"I don’t believe in God," Dean says, with more bite in his voice than he intended.

"You think you’re supposed to be slavin’ away, pounding nails like the next Joe the Plumber? The Dean I knew wouldn’t settle for that bullshit."

"The Dean you knew," Dean snaps, taking an aggressive step forward, “hadn’t fucked up and gotten his little brother killed."

"So you lost Sam!" Henriksen shouts, and they’re definitely drawing stares now. “And I get it, Dean, believe me, I get it! I lost my sister to a Kaiju seven years back and it still hurts every damn day. But you know what?" Henriksen leans closer, so they’re almost nose to nose. “I bury it because people, this world  _needs_ me. Sam knew the risks he was taking copiloting with you and he could’ve stopped you from going after that boat, but he didn’t. He was aware of the consequences. And he wouldn’t want you to sit around here with your thumb up your ass!"

Dean blinks, not sure whether to yell, throw a punch, or do something stupid like cry.

"So what do you say?" Henriksen says, holding out a hand and fixing Dean in an iron grip of a glare. “You gonna sit around until you’re seventy and alone with the world gone to shit around you? Or are you gonna step up and be what destiny’s dealt you?"

Dean swallows dryly, stares at Henriksen for a long moment. Thinks of spending the next fifty years working on walls that’ll get hacked down, drinking beers that won’t repair any problems, watching shitty television shows by himself in his apartment.

Dean thinks of the drift. Of the immeasurable power of operating a practically indestructible vessel of power, of  _righteousness,_ of saving people that would’ve died otherwise.

Dean nods briefly, a broken sort of movement, and takes Henriksen’s hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean kinda sorta hates Castiel, except for where he doesn't.

The flight to Hong Kong is miserable and 15 hours too long. The entire time Dean's clutching the arm-rests, enduring the questioning, almost mocking glances Henriksen is sending his way throughout the trip, and fighting an urge to race to the bathroom and puke his guts out.

Sam used to make fun of him for it.

_Really, Dean? You can go up in a robot practically the size of Mount Fuji and you can't stomach an airplane ride?_

Sometimes Dean imagines he can still hear Sam in his head. The empty space that he left sort of floods itself with his voice sometimes, as if his brain is seeking a way to fill the gap. Dean knows he's imagining it, but it doesn't keep him from tossing and turning until four in the morning, listening with tears in his eyes to Sam carrying on about some stupid story from when they were kids.

Dean's feeling a little nauseous by the time they exit the plane--Henriksen with amusement asks if Dean needs a hand getting down the steps--but Dean waves him off and takes a moment once he's off the stairs to appreciate the existence of solid ground, however ephemeral it may be with the Kaiju attacks at once every week.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet," Henriksen says, and Dean rolls his eyes and huffs a bit because he's not exactly in a social mood. More like a barf-your-guts-out and pass-out-in-a-shitty-motel-room kind of feeling.

There's a guy in a trenchcoat waiting with an umbrella like ten feet ahead, and Dean has a creeping feeling that, even from a distance, he's being stared at.

Sure enough, Henriksen plows right to him with Dean in reluctant tow.

"Castiel," Henriksen says, and Dean takes a moment to digest the weird name. "This is Dean Winchester."

"I know," the other guy replies, his searching stare entirely unrelenting. He looks strangely out of place with his wrinkled trenchcoat, his shock of messy dark hair and his bright blue eyes, but strangely calm and put together, like he's aware of his unusualness and uses it to his advantage.

Dean holds out a hand; the other man doesn't take it, just tilts his head and narrows his eyes. "You're not what I expected."

Dean drops his hand, feeling a little affronted by that, and replies with a lame, "Yeah, well, what kind of name is _Castiel?_ "

Castiel purses his lips and Henriksen answers with an odd gravitas to his voice, "Castiel is one of the Fallen ones."

Dean feels his eyes widen and he turns to gaze at Castiel in half-awe, half-disgust; now it's Castiel that won't meet his gaze, almost as if he's _shy_ about it, dropping his gaze and scuffing his shoes with a gritty crackle on the wet pavement.

Dean tries to swallow the strange bile in his throat and attempts to remind himself that maybe this angel isn't like all the rest, but he can't help saying with a slight sneer, "What, the God Squad kick you to the curb?"

Castiel's eyes snap to meet his, cold and calculating, and Dean is reminded of just how old this creature is, despite his weird clothing and staring.

"It was disobedience," is all Castiel says, and Henriksen seems to notice the tension between them because he says, quickly, "Dean, come with me," and Dean follows after gladly, Castiel falling into step behind him.

Henriksen is giving him a tour, and Dean tries to pay attention as the commander takes him down hallways and explains maintenance closets and bunkers and the rec room, but he's tired and he's admittedly distracted by the presence of Castiel behind him. The guy is _weird,_ but Dean's always been a curious guy and this is a real, flesh-and-blood post-angel. Dean doesn't know whether to punch him or strap him down and interrogate the shit out of him.

Dean shifts his shoulders as he feels Castiel's eyes burning like electric sockets into his back; he tries not to feel too offended that Castiel clearly doesn't like him. I mean, why would he? Dean hadn't exactly rolled out the welcome wagon, and he's not quiet about his disdain for angels.

No one had previously known about angels other than hunters until 2013, and even then, the existence of angels had been rumors. Dean's mom believed in them hard-core, and so had Sammy, but Dean had always been a skeptic. He'd heard whispered tales of angelic warriors, different seraphs that had sided with hunters in fights that never seemed to be told just right, but no one could really deny the validity of their existence when they left earth twelve years back. Some had fallen from the skies like shooting stars.

Dean wonders, perversely, if it had hurt Castiel, to fall like that.

"And this," Henriksen says, drawing Dean in from his thoughts, "is Bela Talbot," and Dean is directed to a cutting green gaze and a sharp cupid's bow curved up in a condescending sort of smirk.

"Hi," Dean says with lack of something better to say. "I'm Dean Winchester." He holds out a hand which he's sure won't be taken.

"Oh yes, Dean," Bela says, and her accent is strongly British. "The Stull flop. Everyone knows about you, trust me, darling."

Dean drops his hand.

"Shame what happened to Sam," Bela says in a voice that expresses quite the opposite. Dean decides he hates her. Her eyes glint almost maliciously, but Dean can smell a broken soul from a mile away, and this girl _reeks_ of it. "But I'll have you know this base isn't for wash-outs. You might want to turn tail back to Alaska before you get eaten up out here."

"That's enough, Talbot," Henriksen says sternly just as Castiel says, "Watch it, Bela."

"I'm sorry, did the angel filth speak?" Bela says with a curve of her eyebrow, and Castiel says nothing. Dean feels a strange urge to stand up for him--he's not just going to take that sitting down, is he?--but he keeps his mouth shut because he doesn't owe Castiel anything.

"I must be going now," Bela says airily, " _so_ nice to meet you, really," and whisks by him in a wake of floral perfume and hair product.

"She's a peach," Dean says, watching her go.

"She'll get a kick in the ass one of these days," Castiel says in a low mutter beside Dean, and Dean thinks that he's made his first ally in something, at least.

"Don't listen to her," Henriksen says. "She's just irritated she has some formidable competition now."

"Yeah, right," Dean mutters under his breath, drawing stares from both Castiel and Henriksen.

"It'll be like riding a bike, Dean," Henriksen says almost consolingly with an odd, almost ironic quirk of his mouth. "You'll see."

"I never learned to ride a bike," Castiel says conversationally, which earns him a skeptical look from Dean.

"How long you been here?" Dean asks him. "2013?"

Castiel nods once, shortly, in a way that suggests he doesn't want to talk about it.

"Does it suck being human?" Dean can't help but ask, and is actually disappointed when Castiel answers, "Yes."

\---

"Four, zero," Dean hears Castiel say as he pins another guy into the mat, and the crowd breaks out into unenthusiastic applause. Dean straightens and extends a hand to the guy on the ground, who takes it and shuffles off without meeting his gaze. Dean sighs, listening to the sound of the aspiring copilots' unease as he stretches his arms above his head.

That'd been at least the fifteenth potential copilot that he'd taken down in the last hour, and probably the 200th duel he's trained in this week, and Dean's starting to get a little bit tired of the whole thing. They're adequate fighters, but none of them _synchronize_ with him; none of them can match him blow for blow, thought for thought.

Many of them will surely be great copilots one day, but not _his_ copilot. He's not drift-compatible with any of them.

Dean wonders if, in his entire lifetime, he's only capable of drifting with Sam.

Another guy steps up, blond and beefy and nervous-looking, and Dean combats him with ease and without second thought, letting his body take over for him on instinct as his mind drifts. He pins the guy in seven moves and as the crowd claps again, turns to meet Henriksen's appraisal, who is watching with his mouth pursed and his hands clasped behind his back.

More distracting to Dean is Castiel freaking _smirking_ right next to him.

"What?" Dean asks testily, and everyone turns to follow his gaze to Castiel. "Come on, out with it."

Castiel's mouth straightens into a somber line. "I don't have anything to add."

"Oh yes, you do, so just spit it out. What, am I doing something wrong?"

"No," Castiel answers. "You're a formidable fighter. But your execution is sloppy and you're taking incredibly roundabout moves to defeat your combatants."

Dean's mouth drops a bit, smarting at the criticism, before he splutters, "And what would you know about it?"

Castiel tilts his head and smiles as Henriksen says, without enthusiasm, "Castiel is one of the department's stronger fighters."

"Fine," Dean says, meeting Castiel's eyes in a challenge. "Throw him in the ring with me."

Castiel looks to Henriksen eagerly, the first palpable excitement Dean's seen him express since he's gotten here, but Henriksen hesitates, shifts, and replies, "No."

Castiel's shoulders slump a bit, his expression deadens, and he turns to face Dean with an unreadable expression.

"What?" Dean protests. "Come on, Victor. I can take him. I just want to try. What's the harm in it?" _I've beaten out everyone else,_ Dean adds as an afterthought. He could use an actual challenge.

Castiel eyes Henriksen sideways hopefully; Henriksen stares at Dean darkly for another moment before he sighs, "Fine," and waves his hand toward Castiel.

Castiel smiles a bit and heads down to the mat, peeling off his shirt as he goes and heading to pick up a post to fight with. Dean is shocked to see that Castiel's not just lean but muscular; he's still pretty slight, but with a considerable amount of hardness to his arms, his legs, his chest. Some of the female watchers whistle, which irks Dean for some reason, and as Castiel turns away, Dean feels a slight thrill go through him at the sight of two dark wings tattooed across the slopes of his shoulder-blades.

Castiel turns again, shifts the post in his hands, and leans into a fighting stance, his eyes sharp and trained on Dean's every movement, and Henriksen calls out for the combat to commence. They circle each other for several moments, sizing each other up, getting a feel for each other's rhythms and movements, before Dean makes the first strike, feeling the impact jar up his arms. Castiel parries him easily, moving forward with unsettling sinuousness to make a jab at Dean's right side. Dean blocks at the last second with a grunt of surprise, and he catches a slight flash of a grin on Castiel's face as Dean thrusts back with a noise of exertion. Castiel ducks, curves, and delivers a blow to Dean's shoulder-blade; before he can land the final hit, Dean moves his post to knock Castiel's feet out from under him. Castiel ends up on his back with a short, truncated wheeze, and Dean leans over him and lightly presses the end of his post into Castiel's jugular.

They grin at each other as Henriksen calls out, with considerably more interest, "One to zero."

"Come on, Cas," Dean says, testing out the nickname, and Castiel's eyebrows lift a bit at that as he struggles to his feet. "You're not much of a challenge after all."

That ignites something for sure, and the next thing he knows, within three moves Dean's on his stomach with Castiel digging a sharp kneecap into the middle of his shoulder-blades, so tightly that he groans out in protest.

"One to one," Henriksen says as Castiel helps Dean to his feet, and the crowd is stirring now, growing more involved as the atmosphere seems to charge with energy.

Dean can't describe the fight as anything but a dance after that; they move in perfect reflection to each other's movements, a parry to a blow, a strike to a block, a hit for a hit, their movements bending around each other. It's not even a fight or a competition--it's utter reciprocity. Two to two, three to three, a blow for a blow. It's been _years_ since Dean's fought with anyone like this, and he knows, he _knows_ as Castiel pins him another time flat on his back that this is it, this is the one.

The last time he fought with anyone like this, even _close_ to this, Dean thinks as he takes Castiel's hand to be helped up, is with Sam.

"I've seen all I need to see," Henriksen snaps as Dean and Castiel straighten to face appraisal and the crowd breaks out into loud, excited whoops around them.

"Henriksen," Dean says, feeling truly excited since the first time in…well, years. "He's my new copilot, right?"

Castiel smiles at him, his hair shucked in a hundred different directions and his cheeks ruddy with exertion, eyes bright, but Henriksen says, flatly, "I'm afraid that's not possible."

Dean stares at him in disbelief as the crowd quiets. "What the hell are you talking about? He's--we--"

"I will have no further discussion on this matter," Henriksen says with a strange, stiff formality. "This trial is adjourned, and I will announce your copilot tomorrow."

"Henriksen," Dean says, dropping his post and running after him, but Henriksen turns to face him and says, coldly, "No, Winchester. It's not him."

"I'm not drift-compatible with anyone else!" Dean counters, feeling his fists knot. "You saw us out there; you _know._ He's the only one that could even keep pace with me, let alone _beat_ me. At least give us a shot."

"Dean," Henriksen says, lowering his voice and refocusing his eyes over Dean's shoulder, presumably on Castiel. "I will not let a Fallen angel copilot a Jaeger with you. It's too dangerous. You're not even of the same _species._ He is thousands of years old; the drift, with all his memories and especially after your trauma with Sam, could easily kill you."

Dean narrows his eyes, sensing something off in Henriksen's words, his shifting eyes, and says, thoughtfully, "No, that's not it. There's another reason. Well, whatever it is, shove it on the back burner, alright? I'm not flying with anyone else but him."

"You will fly," Henriksen says, stepping closer to Dean and dropping his voice into an aggressive snarl, "with whoever I damn well tell you to. Understood?"

Dean bows his head, swallowing the rest of his argument, and nods, reluctantly. "Yes, sir."

Henriksen unearths a Kleenex from his pocket to dab at his nose and stalks off, leaving Dean alone and considerably colder than before, and when Dean turns, Castiel is already shrugging his shirt back on and moving away, towards the sleeping quarters.

"Hey!" Dean shouts after him. "Hey, Cas; wait up--"

Castiel ignores him, hooking a sharp right into the hallway of dormitory rooms.

"Cas," Dean says, catching up to him, "Castiel--"

"What, Dean?" Castiel asks with some bite in his voice as he shifts around in his pockets for his keys; the cold front exuding from him feels arctic compared to the warm glances he'd been shooting Dean earlier.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Dean asks, feeling stung, and Castiel shakes his head and sighs, seeming contrite.

"It's nothing, Dean. What do you need?"

"Dude, I'm not crazy, right?" Dean asks, placing a hand firmly on Castiel's door to keep him from entering. Castiel flattens his lips and looks at Dean with an air of impatience, although Dean senses true unrest beneath his exasperated façade. "You _felt_ that, right? We're drift-compatible, man. It wasn't like that with _anyone_ else."

"It doesn't matter," Castiel says quietly, shoving the key into the lock and twisting it. "Henriksen won't see reason."

"Why the fuck not?"

"You could say he has somewhat of a….grudge against me," Castiel says with clear hesitation, fiddling with the key still jammed in the lock and not meeting Dean's eyes. "I probably shouldn't talk about it."

"Fuck what Henriksen says. Since when does he put a leash on you?" Dean's been here for about a week now and he's never seen Castiel cow to anything that Henriksen's said, particularly something that Castiel seems to want as much as Dean does. "I mean, you're _training_ to be a copilot, right?"

"Not particularly," Castiel says, seeming uncomfortable. "I'd like to pilot a Jaeger but all the training I know is simply from my time as an angel." He meets Dean's eyes with uncharacteristic shyness. "I haven't ever had that sort of…connection fighting anyone, though."

"See?" Dean says, removing his hand from the door. "C'mon, Cas, we can talk Henriksen into letting us copilot one of the Jaegers, but you have to be on-board with me." Dean takes a deep breath, swallows his pride with a slight wince, and says, "I don't want to copilot with anyone else."

Castiel looks at him almost fondly, but his voice is firm when he says, "Please understand, Dean, I can't ask that of him."

"And why not?" Dean asks impatiently, but Castiel just offers a sad quirk of his mouth and enters his room with a loud bang behind him.

"Ugh," Dean says, "fucking _angels,_ " and stalks off to find Henriksen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you catch mistakes!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thinks that he really can't copilot with anyone but Cas. And yeah, he really doesn't want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed by now, the events are happening in different order than they do in the movie. So some stuff may be a bit different. ([also this might appeal to you.](http://mishcollin.tumblr.com/post/57091728265/houseangelos-deancas-pacific-rim-an-au))

Dean’s awoken at 7:00 the morning by a loud, hollow banging on his door. At first, he thinks he’s imagining it—tries to  _pretend_ he’s imagining it, because who the fuck has the nerve to wake someone up at 7 am for no reason—and rolls over into his pillow, nesting back down into the sheets, but the knocking continues insistently so with a loud growl of protest, Dean ungracefully rolls off his makeshift mattress and throws open the door.

He winces at the harsh fluorescent light and is somewhat unsurprised to see Cas standing there with his hands behind his back and his gaze expectant, looking more energized than he usually does.

"Hello, Dean," Cas says, his voice almost  _bright._

Good God, Dean thinks, he’s a  _morning person._

"What d’you want, Cas?" Dean says groggily, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and as Castiel’s eyes rake cursorily down the length of his torso, he remembers in a flash of self-consciousness that he’d forgotten to throw clothes on.

"Well, first, you should probably get dressed," Cas says, although he looks like he’s trying to fight off a smile. “But then I was thinking I could show you the Jaegers and the rest of the Shatterdome."

Dean perks up, instantly more alert. Over the course of the last week, Henriksen had suggested that Dean seclude himself in training to focus on the upcoming mission, which he  _still_ hadn’t been told the particulars of. Dean had been isolated to his bedroom, the cafeteria, and the training room, and his daily interactions included Henriksen, Castiel, and occasionally when his day was shitty, Bela Talbot.

"Yeah, sure," Dean says, “wait here."

Dean throws on yesterday’s jeans and an old Led Zeppelin shirt—he doesn’t have to be in uniform for a recreational tour, right?—and joins Castiel where he’s waiting in the hall.

"Are you excited for your copilot announcement today?" Castiel asks, his voice neutral, and Dean glances at him sideways. Castiel’s profile is serene, masked; no emotion there other than a light curiosity.

"Not particularly," Dean replies. “Everyone knows it should be you, Cas."

Castiel bows his head once as if humbled by the praise.

"Level with me here, Cas," Dean says, and Castiel looks up to meet his gaze as they round one of the corners into a longer maintenance hallway. “What’s your opinion of me?"

A slight ‘v’ puckers Castiel’s brow, as if in contemplation. “Personally, or professionally?"

"Either. Both."

"I think…" Castiel says thoughtfully. “I think you’re reckless and you take risks that don’t need to be taken, ones that jeopardize your crew. I think you’re still stuck in the past and I think you place your own judgment over the advice of your superiors in a way that’ll be dangerous in battle. And I don’t think you’re fit for this mission."

"Don’t sugarcoat it, Cas."

"But," Castiel continues with the hint of a smile. “I like you, truly. You’re brave and honest and good, and you’d be surprised by how few people have those qualities in this base. It’s…refreshing, honestly."

Dean isn’t sure whether to be offended or warmed, so he settles for both.

"Well, maybe I’d be better cut out for the mission if I actually knew what it _was,_ " Dean grumbles, “but I suppose that’s  _confidential_."

Castiel stops, compelling Dean to pause alongside him, and they stare at each other for a moment in a weirdly charged way before Castiel says, with raised eyebrows, “Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?"

"Yeah," Dean says immediately, leaning forward as Cas does. Cas sort of ducks his head, looks around through his eyelashes, then sighs.

"This mission is suicide," Cas says, “and I don’t approve it. But it’s the only option we have left if we want to stop the Kaiju for good."

"What’s the mission?" Dean asks, checking either side of the hallway quickly for people, but they’re alone for now.

"They’re going to try to seal the breach," Castiel says. He distracts Dean by running an absent hand through his hair, leaving it in chaotic disarray and Dean with a bizarre urge to smooth it down. “By sending in Jaegers and dropping a bomb inside it to blow up the portal."

"What?" Dean asks, shocked. “That’ll never work."

"They have a few researchers on it, looking for ways they can get the breach to open, tracking Kaiju patterns. Charlie Bradbury and Garth Fitzgerald, do you know them?"

"I don’t know anyone here, Cas." Half of the people here don’t even speak English, anyway.

"I personally don’t think it’ll work either," Castiel confides. “Come on, we should get going. You’ve got your trial run at 9:00."

Dean hurries to catch up after Cas, still digesting what he’s been told. Seal the breach? With a  _bomb_? Last he checked, no one even knew how to enter the breach, let alone drop something in it, and Jaegers’ presence so close to the portal would surely signal another Kaiju attack, and a fierce one. Probably one that requires more pilots than they have.

He and Cas round another corner and are met with a familiar, unpleasant face—Gordon Walker, Dean realizes, recognizing him from his television screen.

"Hello, Walker," Castiel says, and Dean extends a hand and says formally, “Hi, I’m Dean Winchester," in hopes that he’s friendlier than his copilot.

The attempt turns out to be in vain, because Walker curls a lip as if Dean’s got some sort of disease and says, condemningly, “Winchester."

Dean sighs.

"I’ll have you know that Bela and I have been training for this mission for _years._ We’ve poured sweat and blood into training for this operation. We never dreamed Henriksen would call up some deadbeat has-been and expect him to ride side-by-side with us like nothing’s happened. So here’s a little word of advice." Walker leans closer, so that Dean can smell the sharp tang of spearmint on his breath; his eyes are dark and cold as he says, cuttingly, “Don’t fuck up."

"It was nice to meet you too," Dean says as Gordon stalks away from him, around the corner and out of sight. He turns to Cas. “Wow, does everyone here share his sunny disposition?"

"Yes," Castiel says without a trace of humor, and continues along down the hallway.

"What’s the deal with Gordon and Bela, anyway?" Dean asks, struggling to keep up with Castiel’s pace again. “They dating, or…?"

"They have a very…unique relationship," Castiel hedges. “I don’t talk to them much but it seems to me they have more of a father and daughter relationship, maybe a brother and sister one. They drift very well together."

 _You know who else would drift well together?_ Dean thinks mutinously, but his thoughts sort of splutter off when they round another corner and find themselves in the heart of the Shatterdome.

"We have five other chambers like this where we operate on the Jaegers," Castiel says. “Right now I’m overseeing the reparation of Impala Rogue."

Dean’s trying very hard not to get emotional over the fact that his old Jaeger is standing right in front of him, all 260 towering feet of her, looking like she was never damaged in the first place, but he’s having a real fucking hard time of it.

"That’s the one you’ll be in for your trial today," Castiel continues, almost carefully as he seems to monitor the different waves of emotions across Dean’s face. “She was yours and your brother’s, correct?"

"Yeah," Dean says, clearing his throat. “Yeah, um, she was ours."

"Well, she’s the last Mark-3 we have in commission. All the others are newer models." Dean is startled to feel Castiel’s hand clap on his shoulder, as if trying to brace him from something. “Is everything alright, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean says, a bit brusquely as he shakes Castiel’s hand off, “yeah, I’m fine."

Castiel nods, seeming unconvinced, and says, “Come on, I can show you Solar Thief. That’s Bela and Gordon’s Jaeger. I don’t know if you knew the Harvelles, but their Jaeger was—"

"Coyote Alpha," Dean says. “Yeah, I remember."

"Their Jaeger’s run by Andrew Gallagher and Ava Wilson now."

"Yeah, I recognize the names," Dean says, following after Castiel but unable to tear his eyes away from the Impala. There are probably a good hundred people operating on her, sending showers of sparks raining down, deep in the cavity of her chest operating on bolts or fixing the joint of the kneecap, but the black glossy coat as been reapplied, and the left arm that had gotten torn away by the Leatherback has been reinstalled as if it had never been missing.

"Dean," Castiel prompts, gently, and Dean turns on his heel without a second glance and follows after him.

Dean’s too distracted to pay attention to the rest of the Jaegers, although they’re all impressive in their own rights, and he has the chance to meet Gallagher (who’s refreshingly friendly if a bit awkward) briefly before Castiel drags him for a quick tour of LOCCENT Mission Control.

"This is the Hong Kong control room," Castiel says, and someone swivels in a chair at the main control panel at the sound of Castiel’s voice.

"Bobby?" Dean asks, his voice cracking in disbelief, and Bobby’s face splits out into a wide grin as he practically leaps from the chair to embrace Dean.

"Dean," Bobby says warmly as he pulls away, “I’d heard you were here, but I was on orders not to seek you out."

"You should’ve come found me," Dean protests, drinking in the sight of his old friend. The two of them—along with Sam—had worked together on the Sacramento mission as well as others, with Bobby at the head of LOCCENT Mission Control while he and Sam had copiloted the Impala. He’s put on a few pounds and his beard has touches of gray that hadn’t previously been there, but Bobby Singer looks blessedly unchanged from five years ago.

"It’s truly good to see you, boy," Bobby says, with such sincerity that Dean’s feelings of unease about the mission, the trial, and his interactions with Bela and Gordon lighten. “Although I wish it were on different circumstances."

Dean nods, sobering as he realizes Bobby is referencing the mission, and says, “Me too."

"Castiel," one of the women working at the control panel says sharply as she swivels to face them. “Commander Henriksen is looking for you."

"If you’ll excuse me," Castiel tells Dean and Bobby, and lopes off.

"You friends with angels now?" Bobby asks Dean skeptically. “Never would’ve thought I’d see it."

"Yeah," Dean says with a short laugh. “I guess so."

"Probably good for the guy. He’s a bit of an outcast here."

"That makes two of us," Dean mutters.

There’s a moment of silence where the two sort of gaze at each other, as if filling in for the years without communication, before Bobby says, quietly, “I’m real sorry about what happened to Sam, son. I know how…close you two were."

"I appreciate that, Bobby." Dean swallows, hard, because it feels like there’s something salty lodged in his throat, and changes the subject. “So you’re still running the show, huh?"

"Yep," Bobby says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s amazing how I’ve managed to keep my position, given the Jaeger system is goin’ under faster than a fish out of a barrel."

Dean surveys the room; it’s as familiar as the LOCCENT panel at the old base, all digitalized control panels and zooming, big-screen videos of the Pacific Ocean, seeking out Kaiju activity. A printer slowly chugs out receipt-like paper with jagged squiggles from the main panel; Dean’s seen the page run black before, each time a Kaiju pops its ugly maw out of the breach.

"Say," Bobby says, “don’t you have a trial with a new copilot in like a half an hour?"

"Yeah," Dean answers, “I’m about to get suited up."

"Well, don’t wait on our behalf," Bobby grumbles, and Dean notices some of the other workers bent over the panels smile at Bobby’s words.

Dean grins and says, “See you around, Bobby," and heads off in search of the Impala’s Conn-Pod.

—-

Dean shifts uncomfortably in the tight suit as people fuss around him, fastening straps and poking and prodding in places Dean would rather not be poked and prodded by strangers. His grip feels sweaty and loose on the helmet under his arm, and he can feel his heartbeat thundering at train-like speed in his ears.

It takes a shit-ton of trust to let someone into the drift with him. Dean is, if he isn’t lying to himself, kind of terrified for not only what that’ll do to him, but also his partner. Who knows what kind of shit the drift will dredge up from his memories? He’s had enough nightmares to keep Stephen King rich till retirement—that is, if Stephen King was actually writing again and not hacking down vampires.

Dean doesn’t trust anyone here, not enough for this kind of commitment; he can’t just  _let someone in_ like he had with Sam. He wonders with a strange jitter if it’ll be somewhat cathartic for him, to have someone else’s thoughts and words fill the empty silence that Sam had left.

"This isn’t going to go well," he says under his breath, which receives alarmed looks by the people helping him suit up.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," says a familiar voice behind him, and Dean whirls and nearly knocks a few people over to gape at Castiel, who’s already suited up with his helmet perched under his arm. He smiles at Dean, a rare thing, and Dean feels himself tentatively smile back after he mentally works through his surprise.

"Wow," Dean says. He means to say something like,  _How the hell did you convince Henriksen on this one?_ but what comes out is, “Looking good, Cas."

Dean cringes. It’s not a lie—there’s something incredibly appealing about Cas in a Jaeger pilot suit, but Dean’s  _not_  going to think about that—and he tries to backtrack but Cas seems to bite down on a laugh and replies, “You too."

Brain working again. “How the hell did you convince Henriksen on this one?"

"I…didn’t, really," Castiel says as people move over to fuss with his suit. “He called me in and said he was interested in giving us a shot, seeing the way we, ah, coordinated in the Kwoon Combat Room."

Dean takes a deep breath, in and out. Okay. Cas is someone he can trust, possibly the only person he can trust here besides Bobby. Letting someone in who’s an ally, maybe a friend, and who isn’t a complete stranger takes a huge load off Dean’s shoulders.

"What are you thinking?" Castiel asks, tilting his head at Dean and doing that thing again where he tracks all of Dean’s expressions with uncomfortable precision.

"You’re gonna be in my head in like two seconds, anyway," Dean says with a shaky laugh. “So do I really need to tell you?"

The Jaeger AI comes over the announcements and announces, “Pilots to their positions."

Dean fits the helmet snugly over his head and takes a deep breath, squinting at the way everything seems to be tinted in yellow, and climbs up onto the pad, locking his feet into place. Cas does the same, following Dean’s direction.

"Dean, Castiel," says Henriksen’s voice over the speaker. “Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," they both reply after exchanging anticipatory glances.

"Don’t prove me wrong on this," Henriksen warns, and then his voice cuts out to be replaced by Bobby’s, impatiently barking instructions to the people who are still milling around the Conn-Pod.

"Now, Cas, listen to me," Dean says, turning a bit stiffly in the suit to look Cas in the eye. “The drift can be really overpowering your first time; it’s going to dredge up a  _lot_ of memories, possibly ones you don’t want. You can’t linger on any of them or you could get sucked in and trapped there and throw off the drift."

"I know, Dean," Cas says, impatiently, and Dean curtails this with a sharp, “No, you  _don’t_ know. Nothing in your angelic experience or whatever can prepare you for this, so just listen to me for once, alright? You are literally going to have me in your head, my memories and thoughts, and mine the same with yours. It is  _crucial_ that you don’t get distracted, all right? Don’t chase the rabbit. Cas?"

Cas nods, looking a little nervous for the first time; he wets his lips, rolls his shoulders in the suit, tries to shuffle his feet.

"Initiating neural handshake in 3," Bobby says, “2…" Dean closes his eyes and he’s not a praying man but he sends up a brief desperate plea,  _please let this be okay,_ "1…"

The surge of white light and the feeling of being sucked under into a void of sound is entirely familiar, but the receiving end is not. Drifting with Cas is nothing like drifting with Sam. He feels… _different…_

Dean closes his eyes and hones his focus as his memories flood up and surge into the drift, electrically charging between them, tying their minds, and Castiel lets out a brief cry of pain and Dean grinds his teeth as the familiar spasms of terror, pain, shock, helplessness—" _Dean!"_ Sam is screaming, his lips bloody and his eyes wide and wet with fear, " _Dean!_ " and Dean completely powerless to stop, powerless to help his baby brother—

 _No,_ Dean tells himself fiercely and he lets it go, lets it settle back into the recesses of his mind like heavy silt, and the following memories flash bright and colorful behind his eyes—his mother bending over him and pressing a soft kiss on his forehead, whispering,  _"Angels are watching over you,_ " his father screaming at him, " _How could you, Dean, are you fucking kidding me!"_ and a thrown plate, crying in his room at age 7 with a cut on his arm, fireworks in the backyard with Sam, playing baseball with Sam, crawling into bed with Sam when he had a nightmare when he was 10, Sam, Sam. Driving for the first time, the sweet taste of blood and victory in his mouth after his first hunt, John clapping him on the back— _"I’m proud of you, Dean"—_ Sam throwing him a beer and crowing,  _"One Kaiju down, a few thousand to go—_ ”

And then Dean feels  _Cas,_ like a presence in his head, a low, thrumming bass-whine, and he grips on for dear life as he’s sucked into a white channel of memory, thought, emotion—

He sees a thousand things in the flash of a second—the birth of the sun, falling stars, a fish flopping out of the ocean— _"Don’t step on that fish, Castiel. Big plans for that fish,"_ —singing in a foreign, lost language and sheer celestial  _joy_ like Dean has never known, the chilling moans and horrified weeping after Lucifer fell from the sky like a sun raining down to the earth. Watching the people on earth for thousands of years, guarding them, and Dean is shocked by the deep-seated love Castiel feels for humanity, the protectiveness he has for the people that walk past him in a crowd without a second glance—

He’s in a new memory now, brighter and more fierce than the rest, and he can feel himself falling straight into it, Castiel locking onto it like a hunter onto a deer.

"Cas," he hears himself shout, “Cas,  _no—_ ”

But he blinks and the next thing he knows he’s in a room that’s so white and dazzlingly bright that Dean’s eyes smart. He recoils when he sees Castiel strapped down into a chair, clawing until his nails bleed and pleading, “Please, brother, please don’t do this—"

This isn’t memory anymore; this is  _reality._ Dean feels the solidity of it like his own flesh, and he half-stumbles to Castiel’s side and implores, desperately, “Cas, this is  _just_ a memory, you have to wake up,  _wake up—_ ”

A gray-haired older man moves through Dean like he’s nothing more than a smoke mirage, and, much to Dean’s horror, cuts a thin incision on one of the ridges of Castiel’s throat. Castiel tilts his head back and gurgles, his eyes wide and glassy with shock, and Dean watches in engrossment as silvery ribbons of some ethereal  _something_ thread out of Castiel’s throat, into a glass vial that the older man is holding.

"Now, now, Castiel," the man says, “you’ve been very  _naughty,_ haven’t you?"

"Please, Metatron," Castiel is gasping, and Metratron is  _smiling_ at his pain, and Dean wishes with a ferocity that shakes him that he can leap into the memory and claw this stupid asshole’s face off.

"No, no, Castiel, this is a  _good_ thing. It’s a win-win. We don’t have to deal with any more of your resistance, and you get to be with the monkeys that you seem to adore so dearly. Isn’t that what you wanted?"

"Please don’t do this," Castiel is saying, “I promise I won’t disobey, please—"

Dean can feel the pain, the fear of the memory gripping Castiel like a vice, can feel it because Castiel is inside his head, and he grips onto Castiel’s forearms in the memory, gazes into his unseeing eyes, says, “Castiel, listen to me, this is just  _a memory—_ ”

"It’s too late, Castiel," Metatron is saying, and he swipes a hand over Castiel’s throat. Just like that, the wound is sealed. “But…have a nice life for me, will you?"

And the next thing he knows, he’s clinging onto Castiel like his life depends on it as they hurtle into open, cold space. Dean can dazedly see that they’re falling through the sky at a few hundred miles per hour, blazing a fiery tail behind them, and Castiel is screaming in agony, and this, Dean realizes, is Castiel’s fall. His fall into humanity.

Dean dazedly refocuses his eyes over Castiel’s shoulders and watches as his wings wither up like burning paper and detach as easily as ash from wood.

They’re getting closer to the ground now, infinitely closer—they’ll surely hit impact in less than ten seconds—and Dean is shaking Castiel, screaming, “Castiel, it’s Dean, you have to listen to me, Castiel,  _Cas!_ ”

They’re both wrenched out of the drift in time to see the inside of the Conn-Pod going haywire, “ENGAGED" flashing in huge white letters, and Dean hears a hollow ringing in his ears, like screaming—the entire room is flashing blood-red, Dean can feel the power of the engaged explosives crackling through his arms—

Castiel gives a hitched sort of gasp and lowers his arms; the Conn-Pod shuts down completely into darkness, dying out with a strange whirring sound.

There’s three beats of silence before people are bursting into the Conn-Pod, yelling words that Dean can’t decipher, grabbing onto him and Cas and dragging them out, some of their faces streaked with tears, and Dean thinks, with a dazed sort of horror,  _We almost blew up the Shatterdome. We almost blew up the entire fucking Shatterdome._

Dean can still feel Castiel inside his head, even out of the drift, like a ghost-limb—a different voice filling the spaces Sam had left cracked and bleeding.

People are unsuiting them, he and Castiel are staring at each other wide-eyed and disoriented, but all Dean can think as they’re dragged to see Henriksen is, _The drift. The drift was strong._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, given he never exactly had parental guidance as a kid, has never been grounded. He has a feeling he isn't going to like it.

"So that's it, then," Dean says with a short huff of disbelief, tightening his grip on the armrests as he leans back into the stiff, uncomfortable leather chair. "You're grounding us."

There's a vein throbbing dangerously in Henriksen's temple, and his expression is deceivingly tranquil, but Dean can tell by the spasmodic twitches of his fingers, the stiffness of his shoulders, and the weird quirks of his mouth that he's bottling the urge to throw something, scream at them, do _something._

"Do you even realize," Henriksen's voice is a barely audible growl in his throat, "what kind of damage you two almost inflicted today? You almost killed _everyone_ in this base and took millions of dollars worth of research with it. You think I should just…" Henriksen's face contorts in a way that would be funny if it weren't so terrifying. "…let it slide?"

"Yes," Dean says, and Castiel shoots him an alarmed look from where he's stiffly perched on the chair beside him, his clasped hands clenched between his knees.

Henriksen's eye twitches.

"That was just a test run," Dean continues, much more fearlessly than he feels in the face Henriksen's quiet wrath. "Cas just had to adjust to the drift, that's all. We'll be _fine_ if we try again, if you just give us one more shot--"

"I _gave_ you--a _shot!_ " Henriksen explodes, and Dean flinches a bit at the unexpected burst of sound. "That _was_ your shot, Winchester, and you screwed it up! As a matter of fact, I don't think you could have botched that more catastrophically than you just did, so congratulations for exceeding even _my_ expectations!"

"So you're grounding us," Dean repeats. "You dragged me all the way here across the fucking ocean and you're keeping me leashed here like some misbehaved dog."

"I'm not grounding _you,_ " Henriksen corrects through clenched teeth, and his eyes shift to Castiel and narrow. "Just him."

"What?" Dean protests, shooting to his feet. "Henriksen, just wait--"

"Winchester!" Henriksen barks. " _Sit!_ "

Dean locks his jaw shut, clenches his fists and stays standing for three more long seconds, just for the sake of defying the commander, before he does what he's told with a frustrated growl under his breath.

"Permission to be dismissed, commander," Castiel says, blithely as anything. Dean glances over and he's calm and emotionless; he's perched on the end of his chair, though, and his hands are clenched so tightly together that Dean can see the blanched skin of his knuckles.

"Granted," Henriksen says with another cold look, and Castiel departs without another glance at Dean.

"Henriksen," Dean says after a moment of taut silence has passed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm doing what's safest for everyone in this base," Henriksen says, his steely exterior intact again, "and you have _no_ place to question my authority. You two are collateral damage waiting to happen."

"Look," Dean snaps, leaning forward in his seat and glaring at Henriksen straight-on, "whatever grudge you have against Cas, you can't deny that--"

Henriksen curtails him with a sharp, angry swipe of his hand and says through gritted teeth, "I do not harbor any grudge toward _Castiel,_ no matter how he may have misinformed you. And so we're clear, Winchester, I would never let my personal feelings for a pilot cloud my executive decisions for the Jaeger operation. My sentence for Castiel is based entirely on today's events, in which, in case you haven't noticed, you nearly blew up the entire Shatterdome and killed everyone in it."

Dean knows he's pushing it, even for him, but he persists, "Then why were you so hesitant to let Cas pilot with me? And it wasn't because he was an angel, or anything like that."

A slight tick convulses in Henriksen's jaw, and the cold and tempered rage is back in his eyes.

"Look," Dean says in a placating voice, backtracking quickly, "I don't know what bad blood is between you, alright, and it's none of my damn business. And I didn't mean any disrespect to you by presuming that you would let personal slights interfere with your judgment."

Henriksen inclines his head slightly in acceptance of the apology.

"But the drift was _strong_ between us, Henriksen. Abnormally strong. I wouldn't make this shit up."

Henriksen narrows his eyes into slits and surveys Dean with begrudging curiosity.

"As strong as it was with Sam," Dean says, and is somewhat shocked to hear himself voice it.

Henriksen scoffs. "You want me to believe your drift with someone you met two weeks ago is as strong as the drift with your flesh and blood brother? Excuse me if I'm not buying that, Dean."

"Look, I wouldn't expect you to understand," Dean says, a little bit more frostily than he intended. "But they're equally strong, just… _different_ from each other _._ I can't really explain it." Drifting with Cas was entirely different from drifting with Sam; Dean wouldn't even try to deny that. But he and Sam had been bonded by blood, by love, by shared memories and a connection so deep that it had terrified Dean more than once.

The bond with Cas is…different. And it's not founded in blood, not love, not shared memory. So what, Dean thinks in frustration, the _hell_ is it about him? 

He can still hear Cas's screams in his head, echoing in forgotten chambers of his mind.

"I won't have any further discussion on this," Henriksen says. "You are dismissed."

"Victor--" Dean tries again, but Henriksen fixes him with a gaze harder than iron and says, "Go, Winchester," and Dean doesn't think to disobey twice.

\---

Dean finds Cas with an untouched sack of lunch in Impala Rogue's reparation chamber, and he seats himself beside him without a word. For a moment, they sit in companionable silence and watch as people labor to repair the various parts of the Jaeger that had been damaged in their trial run.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean says eventually.

Cas frowns at him. "Why are you apologizing?"

"It was my fault you got lost in the drift." Dean rubs a hand uncomfortably along the back of his neck, and he can sense Cas tracking the movement. "Those, uh, weren't just my memories. They were Sam's too. I was still, um, connected to him when he died."

"I know," Cas says gently. "You don't have to explain yourself, Dean. I saw everything."

"But especially since you'd never drifted, no one could've expected you to take that shit head-on." Dean huffs out a shaky, breathy laugh. "Sometimes even I can't."

"Dean," Cas says, almost in reprimand. "I won't have you blaming yourself for my inexperience. You gave me advice, advice I knew to be true, and I didn't listen. For that I'm sorry."

Dean doesn't say anything; folds his hands in his lap and stifles the questions threatening to surface.

"You can ask me, you know," Cas says in a hushed voice, as if noticing Dean's hesitation. "I know you saw my memories."

Dean glances at him, embarrassed for a moment and uncomfortable at the sheer intimacy that they're admitting to, intimacy that extends beyond even sex, in Dean's opinion. Dean's had hookups that mean nothing; Cas has been inside his head, and he's been in Cas'. There's a certain element of perverse discomfort that hadn't ever existed between him and Sam. Him and anyone else, as a matter of fact. Yet at the same time...

"Why did you Fall?" Dean asks, feeling guilty even asking. "Who was that guy that was doing that to you? What was that stuff that he took from you?"

Cas, to his surprise, smiles a bit and drops his eyes. "I figured you would have questions."

Dean waits, with a tight, coiled feeling of anticipation and dread in his throat.

"I was disobedient," Cas says in a way that suggests he's picking his words meticulously. He shifts his hands together; they make a sandpapery sort of sound, and he wets his lips. "The man was my elder brother, Metatron. He and one of my sisters see to regulating the…behavior of the angels. Metatron has a considerable amount of power because he's one of God's scribes. He stole my Grace from me--my essence, if you will. That which made me an angel."

"How were you disobedient?"

"The other angels thought it best to abandon the humans to face the Kaiju by themselves," Cas says. "I disagreed. Angels, we're supposed to be _guardians._ We're supposed to look out for humanity, not cower and hide when a real threat comes." Cas shakes his head and casts his gaze out over the Impala again, sighing. "My brothers and sisters decided we should leave, and I protested. I was punished accordingly."

"Just for _protesting_ some douchebag's decision?" Dean is nearly speechless with outrage on Cas' behalf.

"Um…" Cas says in a tiny voice, and he fiddles with one of his belt loops. "I kind of…started a revolution."

Dean can't help it; he laughs. It's so Cas, he thinks, and is struck with an odd swell of fondness for his friend; almost awe.

Cas smiles too. "I gathered other angels who agreed we shouldn't leave earth. We, as you would put it, had our asses handed to us. But I still don't understand," Cas continues in a helpless, frustrated kind of voice, "how could they just _leave_ humanity, unprotected, like they were nothing more than pigs for slaughter? These people, they're all my father's creations--works of art. I couldn't just abandon them."

Dean is struck with the bizarre urge to hug Cas, and tightly. But that would be weird.

"I saw that, in your memories," Dean says instead. "One of the strongest things, actually, your love for humans and stuff. I mean, kudos and stuff, wow, but I can't help but wonder why, y'know?"

Cas frowns and tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"What do you see in us?" Dean asks, honestly curious. "We're…pretty fucking awful, I've got to say. We murder, cheat, lie, steal, have sex with our best friend's wife. We're…attention-seeking, self-loathing, arrogant assholes, every last one of us. What did you see worth fighting for?"

Cas is staring at him in an astonished kind of way, and doesn't say anything for several moments, but he finally answers, "Humans have flaws, of course. But that's what makes them beautiful. Angels, we're born perfect in every way; no emotions to cloud our judgment, no ounce of resistance to our Father's rules. Humans are reckless; they make _choices_ that define them, and they live with the consequences. You're capable of achieving so much good, so much good that it outbalances the bad."

Dean shifts in discomfort at the shift to the second-person, feeling weirdly like Cas is addressing him.

"Tell me that you don't think humankind is worth fighting for," Cas says, fastening his gaze to Dean's.

Dean nods and swallows, unable to say anything in response to that.

There are no words spoken for several more moments; Dean's digesting everything Cas has said, Cas is studying the Impala as if engrossed in thought.

"You said angels were created without emotion or…resistance, right?" Dean asks after a bit.

Cas nods.

"Why did you rebel, then?"

Cas sighs and shifts his weight onto his elbows, settling his chin morosely into the palm of his hand. "Crack in my chassis, it would appear. I was created wrong. That's what I was told, anyway."

"Or created right," Dean corrects.

Cas smiles as if humbled and turns to gaze at Dean warmly; Dean grins back, and they continue to gaze at each other until Dean finally tears his eyes away.

"You ready?" Dean asks, nodding his head back toward the exit, and Cas bobs his head in affirmation and picks up his uneaten lunch.

They're halfway back to the sleeping quarters when they run headfirst into Gordon Walker and Bela Talbot, flanked by a horde of upset-looking trainees, and Dean knows it's going to be a problematic situation when Gordon catches sight of them and stalks over with a dark, cold expression; Bela reaches out and grabs his arm, as if in caution, but Gordon shakes her off and storms over until he's directly in front of them.

"Winchester," Gordon practically spits, and his gaze floats condescendingly to Cas, who's gone rigid besides Dean. "How did I know it would be you two that would fuck everything up?" 

He makes an aggressive move toward Cas, despite Bela's called warning, and without thinking Dean shifts so he's standing slightly in front of Cas, even though he's fairly certain Cas could defend himself formidably.

"That's right," Gordon says with a dark, amused sneer. "Defend your angel fag."

Dean goes very still.

"Dean--" Cas begins, quietly in his ear.

"You should probably take that back," Dean says, and is surprised to hear how steady and unaffected his voice sounds. "I'm not sure I heard you right."

"You heard me damn straight. I said _angel fag_ ," Gordon repeats, before shoving Dean sideways and spitting in Castiel's face. "This Fallen filth almost fucked up Heaven and I'll be _damned_ if I let him fuck up earth too. You fucking morons almost killed all of us and _destroyed_ this entire--"

His words are cut off violently as Dean's fist crunches into his jaw, sending a sideways spray of blood flying from his lips. Dean hears a chorus of jitters and surprised screams from the trainees witnessing.

"I said," Dean says, his knuckles already aching and his body alight with adrenaline, "you should probably take that back."

Gordon spits blood at Dean's feet and curls his lip; Dean can see that his teeth have cut a thin split in the skin of his lower lip, and blood dribbles down his chin.

" _Eat_ me, Winchester," Gordon says, and throws a punch; Dean catches his fist without flinching and bends his arm back until there's a soft but audible pop and a howl of rage from Gordon.

" _Gordon!_ " Bela is yelling, rushing to intervene, and Cas is warning, " _Dean,"_ but Gordon's already throwing another punch, to which Dean rotates his torso sharply sideways to avoid and delivers another hit to Gordon's cheek.

Gordon drives his fist into Dean's stomach, winding him with a soft, protesting heave of breath, but before he can land another hit Dean brings his elbow around to knock into the side of Gordon's skull, which if he's right will have him seeing stars so he'll have time to--

"What is the meaning of this?" a loud voice thunders, and Dean and Gordon scramble apart from each other as the trainees scatter to avoid being associated. Bela nearly trips in her haste to get to Gordon, and she tenderly places a hand under his chin and tilts it up so she can examine the damage Dean's inflicted.

Henriksen stalks into the main corridor, glaring daggers at Dean and Gordon, and Dean can feel Cas pressed warmly, tightly into his side, like a thoughtless gesture of reassurance.

"Winchester," Henriksen says in a low, furious voice, "Walker, my office. Now."

The two shoot resentful, scathing looks at each other but hang their heads and follow after Henriksen--not before Dean feels a soft, reassuring squeeze to his elbow, and Dean can swear he hears a murmured, "Thank you."

He's not quite sure whether it's out loud or in his head.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's grounded. Again. That's what alcohol is for, he supposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning that you'll see the story start to deviate more from canon from here on out.

Dean starts out his probation with an old Stones record on the turn-table and a finger of whiskey.

 _Well,_ he thinks with a long, weighted sigh as he idly swishes the amber liquid around in the glass, _you done good, Winchester._ He's pretty sure Gordon bruised one of his ribs or something because it still hurts to move quickly, and every time he sits up too fast his whole side twinges. Fortunately, he'd dislocated Gordon's elbow and put him out of Jaeger commission for at least a few weeks, which he toasts to with a spiteful sip of whiskey.

" _But baby, I can't stay,"_ the record croons and Dean finds himself sleepily rocking to the beat, " _you got to roll me and call me the tumblin' dice…_ "

Three tentative taps rap on his door and Dean winces as he stands, rubbing the jut of his rib absently as he goes to answer the door.

It's Cas, his eyebrows creased in their perpetual little frown and his eyes squinted on the glass of whiskey in Dean's hand. "Enjoying your recreational time, I see?"

"Won't you come in?" Dean says sardonically, and stands aside so Cas can enter.

"I'm sorry you got grounded, Dean," Cas tells him ruefully as he slides by him and heads for the spare chair in the room, a rickety uncomfortable old thing by the bed stand.

"You didn't do anything," Dean says with a snort, pausing to finish off his glass with a soft grimace. "That was all me."

"I'd like to thank you for defending me," Cas says, and he holds himself uncomfortably straight, hands cupped around his kneecaps and leaning forward in the chair. "As unnecessary as it was. Is this _Exile on Main Street?_ "

"Angel knows his music," Dean says with a surprised laugh.

"I had my phases." Cas's voice is so dark and reminiscent that Dean laughs again, imagining a newly fallen Cas enduring an incredibly delayed, angsty pubescence. "It sounds a lot nicer on a record player."

"Agreed. Can I get you a drink?"

Cas hesitates, tilting his head as if in contemplation, before he shrugs and nods. "I might as well. I'm grounded too."

Dean pours him a glass and hands it to Cas, which he takes and immediately sniffs curiously.

"We done fucked up, Cas," Dean says, raising his glass.

"I'll drink to that," Cas answers, rolling his eyes and clinking his drink to Dean's.

"To the many inevitable fuck-ups in the future," Dean toasts and knocks it back; not before he misses Cas' warm smile, all crinkly around the eyes and more endearing than Dean would care to admit.

Everything else is a little hazy after the fourth drink; Cas gradually loosens his rigid posture, even moving to perch on Dean's bed so he can be more comfortable, and Dean notices his movements are a lot more sloppy when he's been drinking, his expressions less reserved and more animated. They talk about a lot of things that Dean forgets most of later, carefully avoiding both the Sam subject and the falling-from-heaven topic; Cas tells him about his years serving under Henriksen's command, picking up and studying and researching and crafting the Jaeger technology, and when Dean quizzes him on questions about the afterlife, Cas smiles evasively and avoids answering.

"Why's Vic got a grudge against you, anyhow?" Dean asks after the sixth drink; he and Cas are a little far gone by this point, especially because Cas is a frigging lightweight despite being an ex-celestial creature and whatnot, so he figures it's an appropriate time to ask when the atmosphere is warm and intimate and sleepy.

Cas is quiet for a few minutes, peering down into the rounded bottom of his glass and swirling around the caramel contents, and for a moment there's no sound but the soft crackle of a record waiting to be flipped and the clicking of a clock Dean hung above the door.

"I made a mistake," Cas says quietly, swaying a bit to the cadence of his words. "One of many. But this was…prob'ly one of the worst."

"What happened?" Dean sets his glass carefully on the bedside table and braces his hands on his knees, letting Cas know he's all ears.

Cas hiccups wetly, to which Dean says, sarcastically, "Cute," and is quiet for another few minutes.

"I didn't tell you," Cas begins a bit abruptly, "that I've piloted once before."

Dean blinks in surprise, processing this information.

"It was a rough night. Double Kaiju attack, category 3, and the Jaeger program was still getting on its feet. Not everyone knew how to pilot the machines with the necessary aptitude. I knew the machines better than most people because I worked with them extensively, and Henriksen knew that. Of course, I'd never--piloted…never planned on it, until we lost the other two Jaeger pilot teams in the same go. Henriksen didn't really have a choice."

Dean remains quiet, waiting for the rest of Cas' story.

"The only other pilot was Henriksen's sister, Andrea. Now Andrea and I weren't drift-compatible; I'd never been tested as a pilot, but Henriksen couldn't do it due to his…ah, condition, and I was the only one who knew the Jaegers well enough. He sent us out there." Cas shrugs, looks down morosely at his glass again. "I made it out. Andrea didn't. There isn't much more to it than that."

"But Henriksen can't fault you for that," Dean replies, taken aback. "It wasn't your fault. If anyone's fault, it's--"

"I think," Cas says in a hushed, slurred voice, "it's easier for Henriksen to blame someone else than himself."

"Well, fuck yeah, it's easier, but that doesn't mean it's _right._ I could pin Sam's death on Henriksen for sending us in there that night but I don't because I fucking own my mistakes. And the consequences." Dean looks away from Cas, the room swimming a bit around the edges. "Especially the consequences."

"Not all people are as good as you, Dean," Cas says with such sincerity that Dean turns to gaze at him in surprise. Cas smiles a bit crookedly when they meet eyes. "You can't expect that from everyone."

"Yes, I can," Dean says, "because it's _right._ Victor's got no business blaming you, especially when it's keeping you grounded when you should be out there, fighting." _With me._

"It was partially my fault," Cas says with a small shrug. "I wasn't as experienced as Andrea in piloting, and she took the fall for that. I can stomach Henriksen blaming me, if it eases his grief."

Dean stares at Cas another long moment before he says, "You know what, Cas? You're a good guy."

Cas laughs a bit hollowly and stands to get another drink. "Not really."

"No," Dean insists, grabbing his wrist (because no way in fuck does Cas need another drink), "really, man. I wouldn't say that if it weren't true."

Cas sighs and sets his empty glass besides Dean's on the bedside table. "Well, I suppose that means a lot, coming from you."

"I don't know what your thing is with thinking I'm fuckin' Gandhi or something," Dean responds with a short, humorless laugh. "I'm not. Far from it. You just don't know me that well."

"Yes, I do," Cas murmurs, "I _know_ you, Dean, I've been in your head, remember?" He tips slightly sideways with a soft, "oof," and Dean jumps up to grab him even as his side flares in protest.

"Easy, Cas." Dean puts a hand safely on Cas' shoulder, locking his fingers into the muscle there. "Ha. Never thought I'd see you drunk."

"I think I need to sleep," Cas mumbles with another hiccup. "I'll wait here until I can go back to my room."

"Sure." Dean sits him carefully on the bed. "Don't fall asleep on me, man. I don't want to be drunk and awake by myself." The whiskey's starting to kick in pretty strongly, and Dean wonders how much worse his night would've gone if Cas hadn't shown up. Drinking by himself, listening to old records on repeat, staring at walls and ceilings--it reminds him too vividly, too painfully of the post-Stull days.

"'m awake," Castiel says. "What do you want to know about anything?"

Dean squints and considers this. "What's the meaning of life?"

"42," Castiel mutters, prompting a grin from Dean.

"Was Eve hot?"

"No."

"Does hell exist?"

"Yes."

"What about heaven?"

"Yes."

"You've got to give me more details than that, Cas."

"No."

"Does God exist?"

"Yes."

"Is he a dick?"

"Yes."

They carry on like this until Dean can feel his eyes drooping, the room fading in and out in black patches of unconsciousness, and the next thing he knows, Dean's blinking awake into complete darkness, someone breathing warm and soft next to him. His eyes feel all gritty from lack of sleep and his mouth tastes like _shit,_ and his head's pounding in the beginning of what has to be the biggest mother of a hangover in years, but Dean's still trying to puzzle out his surroundings.

_When did it get dark? When did Cas leave?_

He gets his answer only a few seconds later when someone sighs softly next to him before the breath hitches into a quiet snore.

 _He stayed the night. Drunk friends do that, right?_ Dean's still pretty far gone (and there's nothing he fucking hates more than waking up drunk after being drunk only hours previously) and confused so he can't really find it in him to contest the warmth baking off Cas. Seriously, the guy is practically _radiating_ heat waves. _Must be an angel thing,_ Dean thinks groggily, and there's something incredibly peaceful and stilling in being nestled in a sea of blankets with another living, breathing body, so he scoots closer to Cas until their sides are tucked together and his freezing toes are pressed into Cas' warm calf.

Some part in the back of Dean's mind warns that this'll be awkward when they wake up, but the drunk and now-warm part of Dean's brain shushes his own inhibitions and falls asleep with his forehead buried in Cas' shoulder.

The next time Dean wakes up is much less pleasant; there's a loud banging on the door and he and Cas are tangled like pretzels around each other, to which Dean quickly tries to extricate himself as he realizes the knocking is not as imaginary as he'd hoped when he'd woken up.

"Dean?" Cas asks sleepily, his voice gravel-deep and arched with confusion.

Dean huffs out an awkward, "Morning, Cas," and leans over him to flick on the light, to which Cas groans, " _Mother_ of…"

"We've got company." Dean's hungover as _fuck,_ which means Cas can't be faring too much better, and he could seriously use a piss and an, um, cold shower.

The knocking continues insistently, and Dean growls sharply under his breath and glances back nervously to make sure Cas is out of eyeshot before he heads to the door.

"Dean--" Cas tries again, squinting and frowning and pushing himself up onto his elbows, but Dean hushes him fiercely and points to the door. Cas' eyes widen as if he realizes the implications of his staying the night and sinks back into the mattress, gaze flicking to the door.

Dean peeks through the eyehole but can't see anyone, so he assumes that it probably can't be Henriksen, at least, and unbolts the door.

"Hello," a peppy-looking ginger girl with a Star Wars shirt says the moment he swings open the door. "Are you Dean?"

Dean blinks painfully into the harsh fluorescent lights of the dorm hall before he answers, with an embarrassing lack of conviction, "Yes?"

The girl wrinkles her nose slightly and makes a soft "whoo" noise. "You smell like a liquor store. And you've got worse sex hair than a porn star."

"Yeah, can I help you or something?" Dean asks irritably. He feels like puking and isn't in the mood for human interaction.

"I'm sorry." The girl straightens and smooths down her shirt, which has a looming head of Darth Vader and text in capital letters reading: WHO'S YOUR DADDY. "I'm Charlie Bradbury, co-head of the Division of Kaiju Biological Research." She sticks out a hand, which Dean ignores.

"Aren't there like two of you left?"

The girl drops her hand with a put-out expression. "Yes, that would be the other, erm, co-head."

Dean looks at her skeptically until she replies, defensively, "They cut all the funding, sue me!"

"Okay, how can I help you?"

"I'm sorry to bother you," Charlie says, looking not the least bit sorry. "But I heard about your and Castiel's, er, mishap yesterday. Or, more like, I heard a bunch of screaming and people yelling to evacuate the building because it was going to explode."

"Are you going somewhere with this?"

"Yes!" Charlie says quickly. "I think I have a way to stop the Kaiju and seal the breach. But I need your and Castiel's help."

"I thought you already had an idea on how to do that," Dean counters, "sending in Jaegers and closing the breach and all?" before remembering in a moment of chagrin that that had been confidential information Castiel had entrusted him with.

"No, that's _Fitzgerald's_ idea," Charlie says with considerably more bite to her voice, "and it's stupid and won't work. But Henriksen's refusing to see my side of it."

"Well, what's your idea?"

"Can I come in?"

"No," Dean says quickly, moving to block the entryway to the door.

"Please," Charlie implores, "it's confidential information and there are security cameras out here. I'll probably get busted just for talking to you."

Dean weighs his options before grinding out a harsh, impatient sigh. "Okay, but before you get any funny ideas, it's not what it looks like, alright?" He shuffles back into the room and tries to clean up a little, succeeding in grabbing a dirty sock off the floor before Charlie replies with an eye roll, "Sure," and budges past him.

Charlie quickly freezes upon entry and stares at Cas, who like an idiot is still laying on the bed and blinking at her owlishly. "Okay, that looks pretty bad, I'm not gonna lie. I mean, dude, I'm totally cool with the gay, if that's your worry--"

"No," Dean snaps, "it's not a _gay--_ we're not--"

"Dean and I are not having intercourse," Cas supplies helpfully, to which Dean lobs the sock at his head.

"Whatever you say," Charlie responds with a dubious lift of her eyebrows and a movement toward the vacant chair.

"He had a few drinks and accidentally slept over," Dean informs her. "Now can you please deliver your pitch and leave?"

"So you can have some alone time with--"

"Cas is leaving too."

Cas goes all frowny toward him, looking affronted, to which Dean answers pointedly, " _My_ bed."

Castiel grumbles and nestles back under the covers as if he fucking _belongs_ there.

"Okay," Charlie says, "hear me out. I know it sounds insane, alright? But I think it could possibly work. Kaiju are interdimensional creatures, right?"

"Right," Dean answers, rubbing his eyes.

"Why not fight fire with fire and get another interdimensional creature on our side?" Charlie entreats with wide, enthusiastic eyes, her hands clasping tightly in her lap.

"Where the hell are we going to get one of those? Vamps, werewolves, shifters--none of them are enough to take out even one Kaiju, let alone the whole species."

"Angels," Charlie says, almost reverently, and Cas pokes his head up from where he's buried it in Dean's pillow.

"That's ridiculous--" Dean starts, but Charlie throws her hands up to truncate.

"Listen! I knew you'd think it was stupid; Henriksen and Garth did too. But what about the angels that fought _for_ humanity? Like Castiel?"

Castiel frowns in consternation. "How did you know that?"

"I have the dirt on everyone," Charlie says with a proud wink. "Anyway, there were a considerable amount of angels that fought in Castiel's revolution in heaven. We could get them to remember why they were fighting in the first place and pit them against the Kaiju. They'd have enough juice to take a category-5, even, and to seal the breach."

"That's impossible," Castiel mumbles, dropping his face back onto the bed so his voice is muffled. "All the angels that fought in my revolt were cast out of heaven."

"Surely there are angels still in heaven that were leaning toward your side but never actually took part in battle? Ones that still remember what it means to be an angel?"

Dean stares. "Seriously, _how_ do you know all of this."

"I've got an angel friend," Charlie says with a quick smile. "Her name's Anna. We're kind of a thing."

"Nice," Dean says, imagining that particular tryst with a dreamy smile, just as Castiel says in surprise, "Anael? I didn't know she was alive."

"Yep, that's the one," Charlie says. "She says there are still angels in heaven that would consider helping our cause. That quietly supported Castiel's cause but didn't fall. If we persuade them in the right way, we could go SuperSmashBros on these bitches in no time."

"It's still impossible," Castiel says, although it's a little hard to take him seriously with his hair all disheveled and a five o'clock shadow a soft grain on his jawline. His eyes are still bloodshot from last night. "There's no way I could garner enough angelic support to not only take on a category-5 Kaiju, but also seal the breach. There just aren't that many angels that believe in humanity, not anymore."

"It's about quality, not quantity. Anna said to give you some names." Charlie closes her eyes as if trying to recall a memory and says, "Inias, Samandriel, Gabriel--"

" _Gabriel_?" Dean says incredulously. "Like, 'Mary-you're-knocked-up' Gabriel?"

"He's kind of a douchebag," Castiel warns from his place on the bed.

"--Balthazar, and Naomi; I can't remember the other ones."

" _Naomi?_ " Castiel echoes, and Dean is surprised to hear cold rage there. Castiel sits up, actually looking a bit intimidating with the way he's glowering at Charlie. "Anna told you to refer the name _Naomi_ to me?"

"Yes," Charlie replies, facing Castiel's sudden baleful gaze with unwavering steadiness. "And she said you may have a weird reaction to it. She also said to tell you that she was close with Naomi and that your sister is more compassionate than you might've originally thought."

"And where _is_ Anna?" Castiel asks testily. "Why couldn't she tell me all of this herself?"

"She's trying to gather forces. Not to much avail." Charlie meets Cas' eyes again. "She thinks you'll have a more…profound effect."

Castiel locks his jaw, and Dean can hear his teeth grind even from where he's standing. "She's wrong."

"Never know until you give it a chance," Charlie says weakly with a cheesy fist-pump. "Come on, Castiel. It may be our last shot. Garth's mission is suicide and you know it. The angels stand a real chance against the Kaiju."

Castiel shakes his head. "They won't see reason, I guarantee you. Most of them are too scared of falling to listen to me."

"But what if we get more angels on the good guy side than the bad guy side?" Charlie asks earnestly. "What then? They can't throw angels out if they've got a full-scale revolution on their hands!"

"Trust me," Castiel says flatly. "I've tried that, and it doesn't work. I actually hope, God willing, that my siblings will learn from my mistakes."

"We're not giving up on this." Charlie's voice has a considerable amount of steel to it as she stands to leave, fixing Dean and Castiel both with a firm gaze. "It's the best idea we have if we want to stop the Kaiju for good, and I think if you spent time in meditative reflection you'll find the same. Also I'll probably hound your asses until you both agree, so prepare yourselves."

Dean groans and Castiel rolls his eyes.

"It was very nice to meet you," Charlie says with almost amusing formality, and she shows herself out without a backward glance.

"Well, she's fun, isn't she?" Dean mutters, rubbing his stinging eyes again. "Well, do you think she has a point?"

"No."

"Cas--"

"No, Dean." Cas stands up sharply from the bed with surprising grace for someone who's probably hungover six ways from Sunday. "I won't talk about this again."

"Cas, just wait a minute--Cas--"

But Cas has already breezed past him out the door, leaving Dean with an empty bed and a bad taste in his mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a weird buzzing in Dean's ears, but it's probably nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains an indulgent amount of headcanons and schmoop. Also, [check it out!](http://once-upon-a-time-the-end.tumblr.com/post/59372280835/today-i-got-around-to-that-bookmarked-destiel)

"--and we're meeting at 9 am tomorrow to go over a game plan. Dean? Dean? Deeeean--"

"Alright, I know!" Dean says irritably, stopping in front of his room and fastening Charlie with an annoyed glance. "9 sharp, closet on C side hallway, bring Cas."

"Where is he, anyway? You two are usually, like, two peas in a pod." Charlie leans against his door in a sedentary kind of way, to which Dean inwardly groans because seriously? He's about to fucking pass out.

"We're getting some distance from each other," Dean explains, and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. "We're together like every second, especially since the drift." He doesn't mention the low whine in his ears since their separation a couple days ago, a strange, soft buzzing like a radio set to white noise. It's probably tinnitus, anyway.

"Relationship," Charlie says pointedly.

"Bye," Dean replies in the same tone of voice.

Charlie rolls her eyes and says, "Later, nerd," before she tropes off, to which Dean is left mumbling, "You're… _you're_ the nerd…"

He turns to go in and he's got one hand on the door handle when a soft, familiar voice asks, "Dean?" from behind him.

Dean turns quickly, disbelievingly, to see Bela standing there with her hands clasped in front of her. She's sporting a dark red leather jacket and dark jeans, her hair falling in golden tresses to her shoulders, and her cat-like eyes are not slitted with disdain, but wide with caution and…remorse?

Dean huffs out a cold, sharp breath and asks, "What do you want?"

"To apologize," Bela says.

"Bull."

"No, really." Bela's voice is wheedling and Dean is surprised by the note of sincerity in it. Then again, Bela's practically a conwoman, so he's heard, so she probably does this for sport like the pathological case she is. "I wanted to apologize on behalf of Gordon, too. He feels bad about the fight although he'd never admit it."

"What's your motive in all of this?" Dean asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"I don't have a motive," Bela replies with a wounded look. "I just….there's no point in fighting, yeah? We're going to need to be united to take out the Kaiju, so there's no point squabbling among ourselves. We should be allies, not playground archenemies or whatever this nonsense is. We're all fighting the same thing, right?"

Dean nods slowly, a bit dumbstruck.

"Where's Castiel?" Bela asks, not a trace of malice in her voice.

"Not here," Dean hedges, crossing his arms as his fingers tap a nervous tattoo on his empty coffee cup.

"No need to look so defensive. I was just curious given I never see you two apart from each other."

Dean grimaces, chagrinned, and Bela answers that with a laugh. "No need to look so sheepish, Dean. Gordon and I are hardly apart either. Just…pass along the apology to Castiel, alright?"

Dean stares at her a few moments, searching for a trace of insincerity, before he says, "Henriksen put you up to this, didn't you?"

Bela smirks. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he may have put me up to it, but." Dean's relieved to see the soft, concerned look has dropped from Bela's face, leaving it its usual coy, mischievous mask. Good, he'd been starting to get uncomfortable. "Consider the apology genuine. The last thing we need right now is to be fighting like cats and dogs when we've got an apocalypse on our shoulders."

"Um, sure," Dean manages, "thanks, Bela, I guess," and Bela nods and walks off with sharp, clocking taps of her high boots, leaving Dean to puzzle out what had happened for the next few minutes.

Dean finally gives up and turns in, barely remembering to toss his coffee cup in the trash and not bothering to lock the door before he thumps down onto the mattress and drifts to sleep, the same low ringing vibrating in his ears like someone had struck a tuning fork in his head.

Dean's awoken at some point later in the night by the loud, grinding groan of his door's metal hinges, and he shoots up, hand diving instinctively for the knife he keeps under his pillow.

He squints in the darkness, his eyes watering because _yow,_ the ringing in his ears is fucking _loud,_ like someone set loose the Philharmonic in his head.

The figure drifts closer slowly, almost mechanically, socks shuffling dryly against the metal floor, and Dean after a moment of coiled tension demands, "What do you want?"

The person doesn't halt in their steps, almost like he hadn't heard Dean, and Dean realizes after the figure passes under a faint beam of moonlight from the ceiling window that it's Cas, clad in a thin white tank-top and cotton boxers.

"Cas?" Dean asks, dropping the knife. "What the hell are you doing?"

Cas's shoulders are slumped and his eyes are closed, his face completely expressionless, almost like he's….

Dean realizes with a strange jolt that he's sleepwalking.

"Cas," Dean says, scrambling off the bed to shake Cas by the shoulder. He thinks he read somewhere that you're not supposed to try and wake a sleepwalking person, but he has a feeling Cas doesn't coincide with normal psychology. " _Cas!_ "

Cas' eyes slowly flick open, focusing on Dean unseeingly for a moment before his face pinches in pain and he whispers, "Dean?"

"Yeah, buddy. What are you doing here?"

"I don't know," Cas says, distantly. "I don't know how I got here." He swallows twice dryly and winces. "The _pain,_ the pain is so much…."

"What pain? Are you hurt?"

"In my head," Cas whispers, and Dean notices that he's is trembling all over. "The silence, the buzzing was so _loud_ when I tried to fall asleep, and--and--"

Cas's breaths are hitching quick and ragged, and Dean says, soothingly, "Hey, Cas, it's okay--"

"I have to be close to you," Cas whispers, and Dean goes a bit still at that. "I have to be close to you or I go crazy. Being closer to you makes the ringing go away."

"From the drift," Dean realizes in a moment of revelation. Was that even possible? He and Sam had never suffered from any sort of withdrawal from not drifting for a certain amount of time; was it possible to go into some sort of relapse if you didn't drift with your partner for too long? Dean remembers the strange ringing he'd heard earlier with a quick intake of breath and realizes--it had been _Cas._ Or the lack, thereof.

"I didn't mean to come in here," Cas is mumbling, and he's retreating toward the door, "I don't remember how I got here--"

Dean pulls Cas into a tight, crushing hug, and Cas goes boneless and limp underneath him and breathes a shuddering gasp into the sloping bridge of Dean's shoulder. Cas' whole frame is shaking; whether it's from exhaustion or whatever symptoms he's experiencing, Dean can't tell, but arms wind around him and pull him tight and Dean thinks, _Oh, that's nice,_ because suddenly everything is blissfully, blessedly _quiet_ in his head.

Dean can feel the warm pull of Cas' breath on his collarbone, slowing to a cadence as rhythmic as a pulse. He's calming down, Dean thinks with relief.

Cas is muttering, "I'm sorry," over and over again, and Dean keeps murmuring, "It's alright, Cas, seriously."

Cas' forehead brushes Dean's chin, and Dean tilts his head down and finds Cas staring at him, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, his pupils dilated so there's just a thin, sharp ring of blue circling the black. They're just inches, centimeters apart, and Dean's heart is pounding a frantic congo-beat in his ears because he suddenly feels like he's been thrown into a riptide without a life-vest.

Cas drifts closer, eyes flickering and soft, and Dean can taste mint in the soft push-pull of his breath and thinks, wildly, _Is this happening right now, is this happening--_

Cas pulls away and Dean's left torn between staggering relief and bizarre disappointment, and Cas is saying through the loud pounding in Dean's ears, "This isn't appropriate, I'm sorry, Dean. I must have sleepwalked here."

"The drift is pulling us together like magnets," Dean says, and his face is on fire. "You couldn't help it."

Cas withdraws from Dean's grasp and Dean hears it, just softly under the hum of the air conditioner--a quick, sucked-in breath of pain--and that decides it.

Dean says, "You're staying here."

"Don't be ridiculous," Cas responds, although Dean can feel the hopeful relief in his voice. But it's not actually _present_ in his voice; it's almost like Dean can read it off of him. "People will talk, and I know that you…"

"No one's going to find out."

"We have a business relationship, Dean," Cas says firmly, and there's the gauntlet, thrown down, waiting for Dean to pick it up. "This goes further than that. I shouldn't have stayed the other night."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean snaps. "I mean, really? _Business relationship?_ We're inside each other's fucking heads, Cas! We're practically glued at the hip these days and you want to call that a _business relationship?"_

"I've hurt your feelings," Cas realizes, sounding surprised.

"What? No you haven't." Dean's exasperated, a little bit pissed; not _hurt._

"No, you are. I can hear it, but it's like…" Cas frowns and tilts his head. "It's like I can hear it _under_ your voice. I don't know how to explain it. I just know."

"What, like you can read my mind _?_ Well, that's frigging fantastic."

"No, no. I can't hear any of your thoughts. It's just…it's like…an impression. Sort of like seeing color on a black and white backdrop..."

Dean sighs. "You're avoiding the situation. Are you staying or not?"

There's a strange tension strung in the space between their bodies, amplified by the darkness of the room; almost like electricity is threading softly between them.

Cas makes a low, wheezing noise of pain and brings a hand to his temple. To prove his point, Dean reaches out and clasps a hand on Cas's shoulder; Cas weakens instantly, his hand dropping from his head.

"Why is it affecting me and not you?" Cas asks in a tired murmur, heading for Dean's mattress with an air of resignation.

"Can't say. Maybe because it's your first drift-compatibility?" Dean settles in beside Cas. "I've lived with the silence of Sam in my head for years. The pain was excruciating at first, but now, I…I think I'm conditioned to it."

"Dean," Cas murmurs, his voice aching, and Dean shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't want or need anyone's pity.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbles, and gives a little jump when Cas insinuates himself into the circle of Dean's arms.

"I'm sorry," Cas says, and he sounds tired, so tired. "I just…I just want to sleep. It's like I'm so tired that I _can't_ sleep."

"How long has it been like this?"

"Every night," Cas whispers. "Except for the night I stayed with you."

"What? And you didn't tell me?"

"Mm." Cas' voice is a throaty hum. "Not important."

"Yeah, it is, Cas."

Cas makes another incoherent noise and falls quiet. Dean lays very still as Cas' breathing evens out into a soft rasp against his neck. Dean's _baking_ hot because Cas puts out body heat like a fucking furnace, but every time he tries to shift away, Cas whimpers in his sleep, like the lack of physical contact is hurting him.

Dean's up for a long time, his fingers lightly tracing the spines of the wing tattoos on Cas' shoulders, waiting for the ringing to fill his ears again. It never does, and Dean wonders how long there'd been a buzz in his head that he'd tuned out. Probably since Sam had died. Probably before. The yawning expanse of silence is almost overwhelming, like his thoughts have breathing space for once.

Dean thinks about Cas, this strange creature who fell into Dean's life without permission or a presage of leaving. Nobody ever _stays_. Why would Cas? 

Dean tries to categorize his friend for several minutes and pauses at the identifier. Friend? Friends don't sleep in the same bed, clinging onto each other like drowning men. Lover? Dean detests that word. Besides, it's not like his and Cas' relationship is sexual, which is a completely different ballpark of thought. Friends with benefits? Not even that. Brother? Maybe.

Dean experimentally presses a kiss to the crown of Cas' head; he doesn't stir, just breathes deep, eyes fluttering, and Dean wonders if he still dreams about Falling.

Dean falls asleep to silence for the first time in years, save the soft tide of Cas breathing.

\---

Dean stirs groggily to the sound of his alarm at 8:30 and for a moment forgets where he is. Then Cas shifts in his arms, morning wood poking into his hip, and Dean is most definitely up and at 'em.

"Cas," Dean says quickly, shaking him as last night's events trickle back to him. "Hey, come on. Time to meet Charlie."

"No," Cas grumbles, clinging onto Dean like an octopus, and Dean sighs in impatience.

"Seriously, Cas, come on. I have to pee."

Cas opens his eyes and peers up at Dean blearily. "Hello, Dean."

"Hi."

"I'm sorry for last night."

"It's okay, really. It's not like it was totally miserable for me." Dean feels more well-rested than he's been in _years,_ actually _._ "We're going to be late. And you've got an, erm, situation."

Cas frowns and opens his mouth to question before Dean shifts uncomfortably, and the flowering question breaks off into a startled whimper.

"Ah," Cas says in a strained voice, and untangles himself from Dean.

Dean snaps off his alarm and heads toward the door with a blush crawling up his neck and the intention of showering ASAP, ringing already starting low in his ears again, and opens the door to find Henriksen walking past.

"Henriksen," Dean practically squeaks, his voice cracking harder than a prepubescent boy's, and he slams the door shut behind him. "Hey, uh, aha. How are, how's your morning?"

"Delightful," Henriksen replies in a flat voice, eyeing Dean suspiciously. "Good morning, Winchester. You're up early."

"Yep. Just, you know, shower, start the day."

"Where's Castiel this morning?" Henriksen asks, and Dean thinks in a spike of panic, _Shit, oh shit, he knows._

"In his room, I think," Dean replies with an awkward laugh. "I mean, where else would he be?" _Wow._ Wow.

Henriksen nods unassumingly and says, "I need to speak with him for a moment." And he heads off, hands behind his back.

"Shhhhhit," Dean hisses, whirling and opening the door as it gives a loud groan. He makes sure it's carefully shut behind him before he tells Cas, "Dude, mayday."

"Kaiju?" Cas asks, sitting up and looking rumpled and alert.

"No, Henriksen's on his way to your room to talk to you."

"Shit."

" _Go._ "

Castiel scrambles up and past Dean, leaving Dean feeling weirdly empty as he gets dressed with his pulse still hammering. Charlie will kill him if he's late, but he'd promised to bring Cas…

"Where's Cas?" is of course the first question she asks when Dean walks in. She'd told him to meet him in a storage closet, of all things, for "privacy", and Dean wrinkles his nose at the sharp tang of cleaning supplies.

"He, uh, got detained."

Charlie narrows her eyes. She's wearing dark pink glasses and her hair, to Dean's approval, is styled into two buns, like Princess Leia's. Her shirt says, "I walked to Mordor and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." Dean double-approves.

"Hey, focus," Charlie says. "I need him here if we're going to go over the spell."

" _Spell_? Like, witch spell?"

"No, like Enochian spell, which Castiel speaks. He probably knows these sigils better than I do."

"Well, do you have the supplies for it?"

Charlie shoots him an exasperated look.

"Alright, jeez."

There's a loud banging at the closet door, to which Dean and Charlie jump then freeze.

"Uh," Charlie calls out. "You shall not pass?"

"I don't understand that reference," Cas says peevishly from the other side of the door, and Dean rolls his eyes and opens the closet to drag Cas inside.

"Ouch!"

"That was quick. What did Henriksen want?"

"To talk about the mission and reparation of the Impala." Cas looks from Dean, to Charlie, then back to Dean. "They're going forward with Fitzgerald's plan."

Charlie curses.

"But Henriksen seemed interested in the Impala," Cas says, glancing hopefully at Dean. He'd forgotten to shave this morning, again, which Dean won't admit that he finds incredibly appealing. "Which means he might be reconsidering us for the mission."

"Given he hasn't told me _anything_ about the mission," Dean says testily, "I doubt it."

"Cas, do you know this spell?" Charlie asks, shoving an age-golded, crackled piece of paper into Cas' hands.

Cas looks down and frowns disapprovingly. "A summoning spell."

"Yes."

"It'll require human blood."

"I'm on it," Dean says with mock eagerness, which earns him a remonstrative look from Cas.

"And there's furthermore no promise it'll work. If you're planning on summoning Gabriel, the chances he'll reply are very slim. More likely that you'll piss him off."

"At least we'll have his attention?" Charlie asks in a meek kind of voice.

"You don't want Gabriel's attention," Cas says darkly, and hands the paper back to her. "I still don't approve of this plan, but if you have the supplies, I know how to do it."

"Perfect. Who knew fallen angel friends could be so handy?" Charlie asks with a delighted smile.

Cas grumbles under his breath.

"So." Charlie takes a deep breath. "Tonight? Midnight? Research lab?"

"Are you sure Garth will be gone?" Dean asks.

"Yep. He goes to bed at ten every night, the precious little flower."

"Okay," Dean replies with a nod and a nervous swallow. "Let's do this."

"Right. Perfect. Awesome. Oh, and Dean?" Charlie asks with a grin.

"What?"

"I've been refraining from saying it, and it's been really hard, but--"

"I know you've been waiting for it. Just say it, I'll endure."

"Are you sure?"

"Hit me."

"You and Cas are in the closet."

"Yeah, shut up, Charlie."


End file.
